Regal
by pyrrhic victory
Summary: Far from Redwall, an empire is threatened. A power mad ferret stalks the royal family, slaughtering the cubs one by one. To save the life of the remaining heir, a desperate choice must be made, a choice that will, perhaps, alter the course of fate itself.
1. Chapter One

((Disclaimer: Surprise! I don't own Redwall.))

…

The wind screamed through the courtyard, slamming violently against the mourners and sending more than one stumbling backwards. Jeira, caught off guard and already off balance, nearly fell over completely. Syrix reached out and grabbed her arm, steadying her with a warning look.

"Don't fall." His voice was barely perceptible over the wounded shrieking of the wind. "Not here."

Jeira shook off his arm and barely managed to contain a snarl. She turned her back on him, eyes sliding over everything but the coffin, finally coming to rest on the flags jerking violently in the wind, high above the castle. A blue flag with a thin white line across the middle flew in recognition of the king and queen, showing the world that they were in residence. And then, just below it, the black flag of the heir. But the red snowflake for her brother had been replaced with the blue crescent moon for her.

Her brother's flag lay over his coffin.

She bit hard into her lip, drawing blood. All the royal court and several royal guards were standing around her; she could show no emotion, had to keep her face impassive and uncaring. Her brother was dead, gone. And now she had to pretend he had never existed at all.

"Are you cold?"

Jeira gave Syrix a fierce, threatening look. But the otter either did not notice or did not heed the threat. "Are you cold?" He repeated.

"No." She lied, lifting her chin and glaring.

"Then stop trembling like a newborn." Syrix suggested heartlessly and nodded towards the coffin. "And look at your brother, Jeira. They're closing it up."

Jeira closed her eyes and mentally listed her lineage until she thought she could control herself. Then, warily, she opened her eyes and looked towards her brother's coffin.

He looked peaceful, if he looked like anything at all. And it seemed so unfair, so _wrong_ that Viarin, the liveliest, the most defiant of her siblings would have to die the way he had. Hunted down and slaughtered by the Nameless One's forces like a common soldier, not even given the proper execution he deserved.

She supposed she should be glad that his body had not been delivered mutilated and dismembered like the past two royal children, but she could not find any joy within her. Viarin had deserved to die in battle. He had not deserved to be run down in the cold, alone and wounded, reeling still from the death of the twelve otters that had been under his command.

Viarin had done nothing to deserve the death he received. His only crime, if it had been a crime at all, was to have been born royal. Like Jeira. Like Calis, Nejia, Dalin, Perix, and Sacrya. Like her five older siblings. All dead. All gone.

All buried side-by-side in this damn royal graveyard.

She watched as they closed the coffin, closing Viarin away from her forever. Watched silently as they lowered him into the ground. Watched without moving as first her father and then the queen placed a familiar white flower, the symbol of her family, on the coffin and then, blankly, walked away.

And then it was her turn. She clutched the flower in her paws and walked to the edge of the grave. She looked down - a mistake - and froze.

For some reason, she wanted to climb down in the grave. She wanted to climb in the coffin with her brother and just fall asleep, just let the world move on. She wanted, more than anything, to relinquish her hold on life and stay with her last and closest sibling until the world ended. Until the Nameless One overran her castle. Until the last of her realm was destroyed.

And she wondered, in a distant, confused sort of way, if this is what it felt like to go mad. She wondered if this is what Perix had felt when he threw himself from the top of the castle. Because if it was, then she finally understood. She finally forgave him. Because this type of emotion could not be controlled, could not be contained.

All she wanted was to leave, to find a way _out_. And she wondered if it was worse that Viarin was dead or that she envied him for it.

"Princess Jeira." Syrix was at her elbow, claws digging viciously into her skin. "Now is not the time for one of your emotional fits."

Jeira looked up at him slowly. "Syrix." She whispered. "Syrix, I don't want to be the only one left."

Syrix gave her a rare and well-disguised sympathetic look. "I know, Jeira. But death does not ask for your permission when it takes its victims. And the only thing you can do now is honor his sacrifice. You must not make his funeral a spectacle. He would not have wanted that."

She winced at the words, "Honor his sacrifice."She had heard those words so many times now that the words themselves meant absolutely nothing, yet they brought vicious agony every time. _"Honor his sacrifice."_

And then, drawing more on the tattered remnants of her pride than any sort of inner-strength, she straightened, dropped the flower on her brother's coffin, and walked away.

As always, she tried not to look at all the other graves as she passed. And, as always, she failed.

They went in order of birth, which was close enough to order of death that it didn't seem too odd. Only Perix had broken the order, throwing himself off the north tower after Dalin and Sacrya had been delivered in pieces. Perhaps it was the knowledge that his rightful death had been between Dalin and Sacrya that sent him to suicide. Jeira would never know.

But it hardly mattered now. All her siblings were dead, as was her mother. Her mother had died a season ago, grieving herself into an early grave. She had been unable to bear the loss of three children within one week. Even Arinya, the Warrior Queen, had her limits.

And so she had died and had been buried beside her children in the same graveyard that held her own siblings and all of her family, ancient as the line was. The graveyard that would hold all of her cubs, soon. The graveyard that haunted Jeira's dreams every night, calling for her, waiting for her.

Jeira hurried away from cemetery, comforting herself with the fact that she would never have to attend another funeral. The Nameless One was playing a game, killing off all seven of the royal children, to torture a king that had refused to surrender his realm.

The next time there was a royal funeral, it would be for her.

…

"The princess has gone missing."

Syrix looked up from the dagger he had been sharpening. "Has she?" He inquired politely.

Faren nodded, distress brightening his blue eyes. "We have searched for hours and cannot find her. The king is…alarmed."

Syrix imagined that "alarmed" was perhaps the largest understatement he had ever heard in his life, especially when he noticed the blood leaking slowly from the corner of Faren's mouth. "I imagine so," Syrix drawled, "if he's so far gone as to hit you."

Faren reached up instinctively to brush a paw over his mouth. Then he scowled, as if irritated by his own display of anxiety. "I lost her." He pointed out. "I should be glad he doesn't kill me."

"Kill you?" Syrix stood up, the dagger disappearing into his clothes. "Yes. You should be. Especially since it would be me doing the killing."

Faren's face darkened. "Will you find her or not?"

Syrix nodded. "Of course I will. Does it appear to you that I have anything more pressing to do?"

The squirrel shrugged uneasily. "I wouldn't know."

Syrix rolled his eyes. Sometimes the way this realm was set up, with squirrels inferior to otters, irritated him. The hierarchy only served to prove, over and over, that he was not home.

"How long has she been missing?" Syrix asked, glancing out the window to ascertain the time.

"We do not know. Her maids say they haven't seen her since the prince's funeral. But the guards swear she has not left the castle." Faren looked worried. "And no one has seen the princess at meals since the funeral three days ago."

"Jeira rarely attends meals. She eats alone or with close friends."

"No one has delivered food up to her rooms."

Syrix gave him a doubtful look. "From what I hear, you were close to Jeira when she was younger."

Faren blinked. "I hardly see what that has to do-"

"I've been frequently regaled with stories of how the two of you and Lady Ayra used to raid the kitchens at night." Syrix drawled in a way that suggested he had not at all found the stories entertaining and, furthermore, thought it was Faren's fault that he had been forced to suffer through them at all.

"Oh." Faren looked faintly guilty. "Well…yes. But we've grown since then."

"Perhaps _you_ have." Syrix glanced sidelong at Faren. "Though, I doubt it. Certainly, Ayra has not. And Jeira is not exactly a shining beacon of maturity herself."

Faren decided not to point out that Jeira, as the heir of the realm, outranked Syrix now and that daring to insult the crown princess was a considerable crime. Instead, he decided he would rather keep his head attached to his neck and let the insult go by. "Do you intend to find her or not?"

"I'll find her." Syrix moved towards the door. "And you should probably stay away from the king while I do."

"Why?"

"Because I doubt he'll appreciate the fact that _I'm_ doing _your_ job."

…

Syrix sighed and stared doubtfully at the window. He knew he would have to climb out of it and then, using a conveniently positioned gargoyle, swing himself onto the roof. That was where Jeira was. He knew that.

The problem, it seemed, was that he had yet to conquer his illogical fear of heights.

He shifted uneasily, allowed himself ten more seconds of paranoia, and then climbed onto the window sill. He stood up carefully and then reached above the window, grabbing for the gargoyle. What he found, to his surprise, was a rope. A rope that we being lowered down to him.

"C'mon, Syrix. I know you hate using the gargoyle."

Syrix frowned. "What is the rope tied to?"

There was a long pause. "Certainly not the gargoyle." She answered carefully.

"I've told you before, that doubtful piece of masonry cannot withstand my weight for any serious amount of time."

"Well, it's all that's up here. I mean, I could tie it to _myself_."

"You," Syrix pointed out, "are even less stable than the gargoyle."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment to my slender figure rather than an insult to my strength."

"Take it how you want." Syrix suggested darkly, before reaching out to grab the rope. "If I die, though, I want it clarififed that it was, in fact, an insult."

"I love you too, Syrix."

Syrix snorted in disapproval, tightened his grip on the rope, and stepped out of the window.

The gargoyle, as always, held strong.

Syrix scaled the rope easily and grabbed hold of the roof, pulling himself up hastily. Jeira, who had sprawled out on the cold roof to stare up at the sky, gave him a brief, thoughtful look.

"Why is it always you?" She asked.

"Because no one else possesses the same suicidal inclinations." Syrix retorted. "Besides, would you rather someone else?"

"Maybe. You always make me feel like an idiot for being upset."

"I've said before that I find grieving an entirely selfish emotion." Syrix shrugged. "I've also said I don't blame you for it. But if you're interested in some kind of sentimental sobbing, I could fetch Faren."

Jeria snorted. "You've never liked Faren." She gave him a curious look. "But you've never said why."

"Faren is far too sensible a squirrel to be so submissive to you simply because you're an otter, and he is not. I find his obedience disgusting."

"It's the way our realm is. You cannot judge us for-"

"I can judge whatever I wish. And I can decide however I want."

Jeira sighed. "How can you be so independent?"

He shrugged and sat down far away from the edge of the roof. "It's quite easy. You simply have to not care about others."

"I can't do that."

"Of course not. You've been convinced you need to care about everyone. It's part of being what you are, I suppose."

Jeira sighed and did not answer. She knew he was right. She had been raised to care about all of those in her care. Unlike her brothers, she and her two sisters had been raised to be negotiators, to be peacekeepers. It had been thought that her four brothers could handle the realm, if it came to a war.

But it had come to a war. And her brothers had died. And now she was the last true successor to the throne, and she knew, so deep that she couldn't challenge it, that she could not handle a realm at war. She could barely endure her siblings' funerals.

She could not stand to go to the military funerals held every week, with scores of sobbing mothers and fathers and…

"There were seven of us." She whispered.

Syrix glanced over at her inquiringly. "Seven of you?" His voice was polite, not truly interested.

"Four brothers, two sisters, and me. Why _seven_? Who has _seven_ cubs?"

"Royals often have large families." Syrix replied logically. "In case of accidental deaths."

She turned to look at him and then laughed. It was a hollow, bitter laugh, and it made Syrix frown. But that was quite possibly the most hilarious thing she had heard for a while. _Accidental death._

"I was just thinking," she said once she'd stopped laughing, "that we stabbed ourselves in the back with that. Seven children. It would've been a lot easier on all of us, especially my father, if there had only been one or two."

"That's rather cynical." Syrix noted. "I suppose I could say something about it being better to have children for a brief period of time and lose them than to never have had them at all, but that type of lie has always struck me as particularly heartless."

"Oh, please, don't do anything you consider morally wrong. The moral conscience of an assassin is not to be regarded lightly."

"For once, we agree." Syrix apparently did not sense the sarcasm in her voice. Or, if he did, he refused to acknowledge it.

Jeira sighed, eyes closing against the world. "It's a damned life we live, Syrix."

"Is it?" Syrix asked. "And whatever makes you think that _my_ life is damned?"

"_Something_ ran you out of your homeland." Jeira pointed out, well aware that she was crossing lines.

It was well-known that Syrix had not been born in Revern, that he had been exiled from his homeland. What was not known, at least not well, was where he had originally come from, and why he had been forced to flee.

She could sense Syrix tensing up, looking at her with that glare that, had she opened her eyes to see it, would have melted her resolve. "Perhaps, Jeira, it is _my_ life that is damned and not yours. Perhaps my very being here is what brought disaster upon your family."

"Oh, I doubt it." Jeira opened her eyes and looked over at him in quiet respect. "You're the one who has kept us alive."

Syrix blinked and stared out towards the distant smoke from the fires of thousands of the Nameless One's troops. They waited half a day's march away, fully prepared to attack at any moment.

"Whatever's kept you alive will fail soon enough." He noted darkly. "Your father has no strength to stand up to the Nameless One. Not anymore."

Jeira's sigh was deep and tired, worn-down and world-weary. "Syrix, couldn't you once come up here and tell me that everything will be alright? That, somehow, it will all turn out fine in the end?"

The otter turned back to look at her, incredulity in his eyes. "Lie?" He asked, sounding vaguely offended. "To you? Jeira, I only lie to those that deserve it."

"It'd be a _good_ lie, Syrix. Not an immoral one. Just a…a merciful one."

Syrix eyes flashed dark. "Those are the only lies I tell." He said. "But only to those that need it. Only to those I'm killing."

Jeira winced. "Well, I'll be dying soon anyway. It's not as if it really matter _who_ kills me."

"You wouldn't say that," Syrix said, "if you'd ever listened to the dying begging for just a half-minute more of life."

Jeira's eyes closed again, and she wished idly for the world to disappear. "Syrix, why do you insist on reminding me that life is so horrible?"

"Life is no such thing." Syrix retorted. "Life is beautiful, if only for its impermanence. Death, however, is an ugly, hideous thing. It is too common and too arrogant." He sighed and looked away, staring down the setting sun. "I could tell you wonderful stories about life, Jeira, but you only ever want to speak of death."

"Then tell me about life. Tell about where you came from."

Silence. For several long minutes, silence. Then, "Jeira, we die many different deaths. I have yet to die physically, but the place I came from killed the majority of my nicer personality traits. I will not tell you why, and I would never tell you how. Ask about something else."

She sighed. "Fine. Tell me something else. Anything else. Tell me about the world I will never get to see."

"That's rather fatalistic of you." Syrix noted. He paused, sized her up. "Fatalism does not become you, Jeira. Stick with your usual mixture of optimism and confusion."

"No, Syrix. No, I don't think I will." She stood up, completely disregarding the fact that, if she slipped, there would be no saving her. "I don't think I _will_ be all cheerful and happy anymore. _I_ am going to _die_. Do you understand, Syrix? _Die_. _Dead_. What does it matter if I go to death smiling or crying? It'll get me anyway."

"Aye." Syrix agreed. "But go to death smiling, and it may smile back."

"Oh, and that makes it better?"

Syrix laughed. "Believe me, Jeira. If death comes to you painlessly, you will have been blessed far beyond your siblings."

She struck him. Slapped him across the face as hard as she could manage. He tilted his head, absorbing the blow silently, and then looked back at her. She seethed for a moment more and then, with a soft, desperate sound in the back of her throat, she turned away.

He watched her wiping furiously at her eyes, trying to choke back her sobs. "Jeira," he said finally, his tone ringing with an apology he would never voice, "where I come from, you do not hide your emotions. If you cry, you cry where everyone can see. And there is no disgust or contempt. The creatures that drove me away…they had a great capacity for sympathy and love."

She froze and turned her face towards him. "Where you came from?" She asked, obviously shocked that he had spoken of it at all.

"Where I came from." He said. "I believe you would have liked it there. I believe they would have liked _you_ there."

"They don't hate you for having feelings?" She asked softly, hopefully.

"They don't chain themselves with propriety. They…" He paused, brutally struggling against the whirlwind inside him. "They would never try to force you to become something you could never be."

"What about you? Why didn't they accept _you_?"

"Because, Jeira, I, like you, could never help what I was born into." His voice was quiet, sharpened to hide the soft bitterness beneath. "I am what I am. It wasn't good enough for them."

She turned to look at Syrix, offended by the slight to him even as the tears he had made her shed dried slowly on her face. "You're good enough for _me_." She said fiercely. "And that should be quite enough for everyone else."

He smiled. "If only the world was so easily won."

"It should be."

His eyes drifted over the smoke ever-present in the sky. "No, Jeira." He said. "Bigotry and division have their place. If not for them, we would never fight so hard to be free."

"You never make any sense, Syrix."

He laughed then. "That," he said, "is probably for the better. Come, you have a ball to attend."

She winced. "I _hate_ funeral balls."

"You and the rest of the kingdom. But it _is_ a tradition in your family, and you _do_ have to attend. So dry your eyes, Jeira. Your subjects need your strength."

She brushed away her tears impatiently. "They'll have my life." She said darkly. "Isn't that enough?"

"Never."

…

((Note: This story will be incredibly short. It'll be three or four chapters of around this size. It serves mainly to provide the back-story for a few characters that will be popping up in the third (and final) story that follows Vengeance Born and Destiny Bearing. However, this fic can be read alone without any difficulties, so don't worry if you haven't read anything else I've written.

Also, I wasn't sure how to rate this, so I just went ahead and rated it "T" like the rest of my fics. Someone tell me if this is overkill.))


	2. Chapter Two

((I have decided that the "T" rating is fully deserved…because Ayra is in this fic.))

Jeira snorted as he eyes fell on Syrix. "I see Iakria managed to catch you." She eyed his black uniform and his delicate silver circlet with obvious amusement. "Too bad. There was a bet going, and I was on your side."

Syrix, who was infamous for disregarding formal dress, shot Jeira a dark look. "That…_female_ broke into my rooms and stole all my other clothes while I was in the baths. I intended to attend the ball in my bathing towel, but some of your royal ladies started making the most inappropriate comments." He looked decidedly displeased. "I must say, Princess, your friends have the foulest of minds."

"Ah." She tried to smuggle a laugh. "Run into Ayra, did you?"

"She attempted to steal my towel." Syrix's eyes sparked. "Twice."

Jeira battled to keep a straight face. "Did she manage it?"

"Of course not." He looked offended. "Although," he added with a slight upward twist to his mouth, "she did get a decent grip on it the second time around."

"How'd you get her to let go?"

"I pretended her betrothed was rounding the corner."

"That was cruel of you." Jeira frowned lightly. "You know how she hates Hieran."

"Yes, well, I assure you, the situation was dire."

Jeira smothered a laugh. "Oh, yes. It definitely sounds that way."

Syrix glowered down at her. Then he blinked. "Well," he said, "you look rather….clean."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "As always, Syrix, your compliments simply make me _glow_."

"I could've said something about your crown." He pointed out dryly. "For your sake, I refrained."

She winced and reached up to touch her towering golden crown. "I know. It's a bit much, isn't it?"

"If by 'a bit much' you mean it looks as if it's attempting to eat your head, then yes. I completely agree with you."

Jeira rolled her eyes. "Syrix, your company is hard on the self-esteem."

"I did say you looked clean." He sounded mildly taken aback. "I suppose I _could_ say something about your dress. It's very…" He trailed off.

"Clean?" She suggested sarcastically.

"I was going to say effeminate."

"Most dresses are."

"Yes, well." He shrugged. "There you are."

She sighed and fidgeted uneasily in the heavily embroidered black velvet dress. "I wish this night was over with." She muttered.

He glanced over towards her and something like guilt flashed in his eyes. "Enjoy it, Jeira." He said quietly, distantly. "You may never see another ball like this again."

"Oh, _that's_ cheerful." Jeira snapped at him moodily. "Must you _constantly_ remind me of my fast approaching death?"

"I wasn't-" Syrix stopped mid-sentence as one of the castle guards appeared around the corner. "Yes?"

"We're about to open the doors, sir." The guards said as a few more guards appeared behind him. He turned to Jeira and, in unison with his fellow guards, gave the traditional salute to the royal heir.

Jeira nodded once and looked away, assuming a mask of aristocratic apathy to hide her pain. "I suppose, Syrix, that you are escorting me?"

"You have no brothers left." Syrix pointed out bluntly but at least quietly. "It was me or your sniveling cousin. I decided I would take pity on the poor idiot."

Jeira nodded and held out her arm. Syrix looped his through hers and nodded towards the guards. "Open the doors, then."

The bowed to him and scurried off quickly to open the heavy oaken doors. It was obvious that his presence was making them uncomfortable. None of the guards made eye-contact with him, even when the two of them walked directly past the guards. They looked up at Jeira, with respect and affection, but never once did they dare look at him.

"They're still afraid of you, Syrix." Jeira noted in a whisper as they stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the inside of the ballroom. Below, all the royal otters and highborn squirrels looked up and silence slipped over the room.

"They will always be." Syrix replied. "I'm easy to fear when you know all my secrets."

"Ah, yes, the secrets you won't tell me." Jeira said through the properly grim smile. "Those secrets."

He sighed, obviously neglecting to give the properly stern facial expression as they paused on the balcony. "Jeira, I've told you before. I like it when others can look me in the eye without searching for a monster."

"Forgive me, Syrix, if I'm annoyed by the notion that my entire realm knows more about one of my closest friends than I do."

"Someday, Jeira, I will tell you the horror stories others whisper about me." He promised with that especially bitter tone of voice that signaled his sincerity. "And then you'll realize why you never wanted to know in the first place."

Jeira snorted. "Oh, but Syrix, I thought I wasn't going to live long enough to go to another of these most joyous celebrations. However will I manage to live long enough to earn your approval?"

"It's not my approval you're lacking, Jeira." Syrix informed her as they began to walk down the flight of stairs to the ballroom, having spent the requisite amount time standing nobly and serenely on the balcony. "And you may live longer than we've been expecting."

Jeira blinked and turned to look at him, surprised so much that she momentarily forgot decorum. "What?" She asked.

"Smile at your subjects, Jeira." Syrix ordered without ever meeting her gaze. "You never know how many of them will be around tomorrow."

She sighed and turned away from him, back towards the ballroom. She hated these funeral balls. Before the Nameless One came, she had never been to one. Now, she had been to seven. They were the only celebrations her father still held. For awhile he had kept with the tradition of having a festival every time his armies had a victory, but he had learned his lesson when the Nameless One attacked the morning after, and the soldiers, bleary-eyed and confused, had been slaughtered.

Jeira glanced around the room, noting her brother's flag hanging from the ceiling, upside down to signify his death. The decorations were in black and dark red to match the colors on her brother's flag, and the guests had dressed accordingly. Only one flash of color stood out against the sea of black and crimson. Ayra, the squirrel so eternally cheerful that she often bordered on permanent insolence, stood looking up at the pair of them with a wide grin on her face, wearing a beautiful blue dress.

Jeira tried her best not to react to Ayra. She knew it would only encourage her. Still, she couldn't repress the slightest of smiles as they stepped down the final step and met Ayra at the foot of the stairs. "Greetings, Lady Ayra." Syrix said, his voice heavy with disapproval.

"G'evening, Rixy." Ayra retorted with a wink as she slipped her arm through Jeira's free one. "Don't you look pretty?"

Syrix shot her a look that could have frozen a firestorm solid. "Much more so than you." He snapped back.

"Aw, isn't he cute, Jeira?" Ayra's grin was wide and infectious. "He's all in a tizzy 'cause I almost saw him naked."

"Oh?" Jeira asked, feigning surprise. "You failed?"

"Well, not for lack of trying." Ayra said cheerfully.

"Or for lack of a death wish." Syrix growled under his breath. Jeira fought to keep a straight face.

"Oh, gods." Ayra's good humor vanished, and her grip on Jeira's arm tightened painfully. Then, suddenly, she let go, whirled around, and grabbed hold of Syrix. "Syrix, I need you to save me."

"Not my line of work." Syrix responded instantly. "Ask Faren."

"He's too far away!" She tossed a desperate look over her shoulder. Hieran was approaching from across the ballroom, but he hesitated when he saw Syrix. "You know he's scared of you. Quick, do your angry face."

"My what?" Syrix demanded.

"Yes, that one! Good, good!" Ayra glanced over her shoulder again to find Hieran moving back into the crowd, looking mildly disturbed. "Syrix, you're my hero."

"I am not." Syrix argued, offended. "Now get off me."

Ayra chuckled and released him, moving to walk alongside Jeira once again. "So," she said cheerfully, "that's a beautiful dress."

"I thought you said black didn't suit me." Jeira replied quietly.

"It doesn't." Ayra shrugged. "But I thought I'd try and cheer you up, just the same."

She smiled. "Thank you, Arya."

"Ah, well, I knew _he'd_ be at the same thing." Ayra gestured at Syrix with a roll of her eyes. "Jus' thought I'd prove I was better at something than he was."

Syrix snorted and pulled away from Jeira. "I leave you to the vapid immorality of Lady Arya." He said to Jeira. "Watch that her idiocy does not spread to you."

"Oh, and love to you as well, Rixy." Ayra retorted with a cheeky grin.

Syrix didn't even respond to her taunts. He was already well on his way towards the back of the ballroom, where the ale was being served. Squirrels and otters cleared from his path with obvious earnest. There were very few creatures in the realm who wished to spend more than the slightest amount of time with Syrix. And even fewer who Syrix would allow to do so.

"You know," Ayra said wistfully, staring after him, "someday he'll warm up to me."

Jeira snorted. "Oh, I doubt it. After all, he hardly likes _me_."

Ayra blinked at her. "Oh, please, Jeira. Everyone in the _realm_ knows you're his favorite. I pity whatever poor idiot tries to kill you." She winced. "They'll be lucky if he leaves enough t'bury."

Jeira glanced at Ayra doubtfully. "You've been drinking." She accused.

"Like a fish." The squirrel agreed cheerfully.

"You really shouldn't."

"Oh, and why not?" Ayra rolled her eyes. "I'm gonna be married off soon enough, might as well have fun while I can."

Jeira looked at her friend sadly. Ayra wanted nothing more than to take up a blade and fight, like all her brothers had died doing. She wanted everything she couldn't have. And how she managed to smile and laugh at a fate that was cruelly slicing out her heart, Jeira never understood.

"Good evening, Ayra." Faren arrived, looking uneasy and harassed. He bowed to Jeira. "Princess."

"_Jeira_." Jeira corrected, eyes darkening. "Faren, we were childhood allies. Do not throw my title at me now."

Farin glanced over his shoulder, and the dark blue uniforms of his fellow Guards blazed out brilliantly against the blacks and deep reds. "Forgive me." He paused. "Princess."

"Stop it." Jeira snapped. "I'll order it, Faren."

"Best do as she says." Ayra muttered archly. "Never know when this one's gonna snap. Lots of tension right now. Probably has somethin' to do with her family. I dunno."

"That's hardly appropriate, Lady Ayra."

Ayra laughed and shoved Faren hard enough to cause him to stumble back. "Call _me_ by my title, Faren, and I'll beat you senseless right here in front of your commanding officers. I don't play courtly games like Jeira."

"Faren, what happened to your lip?" Jeira asked, concerned.

Faren brushed at his swollen lip idly. "A…disagreement." He glanced around, desperately seeking out a safe topic of discussion. "Have you noticed, Ayra, how little of our kind are left?"

Ayra's eyes swept across the ballroom, noting the lack of squirrels among the otters. For a moment, a flash of pain entered her lively green eyes. "Yes. I have."

Faren nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid we're not having as many cubs as we once did."

Ayra glanced at him, and her sorrow vanished. She winked. "Guess we'll just have to make some, Faren."

Faren choked on air. He went into a coughing fit that Ayra only worsened when she pounded violently on his back. Finally, after drawing the attention of half the ball's attendants, Faren managed to get himself under control. "_Ayra_!" He hissed, scandalized.

"Oh, what?" Ayra fluttered her lashes at him. "What did I say?"

"Stop teasing him, Ayra." Jeira struggled to keep a straight face. "It's hardly fair."

Ayra turned to look at Jeira. "Who said I was teasing?"

"I-I have to go." Faren hurried off, taking refuge among his fellow Guards.

"Oh, look at him run." Ayra cackled wickedly. "I tell you, Jeira, every male in this castle has lost their sense of humor." She paused and grinned wickedly. "And their sense of adventure."

Jeira shook her head, amused by the squirrel's antics. "Really, Ayra, you did push that a little too far."

"That's my skill." Ayra pointed out jovially. "And, when you only have one talent, you tend to stick with it."

Jeira turned to look at her friend, a quiet frown tugging at his lips. "Ayra…you hardly have one talent."

"Oh, aye. Forgive me." Again, that brief flash of bitterness entered her eyes. "Only one talent I'm allowed to _use_." Before Jeira could speak up in an attempt to deny what they both knew was true, Ayra's mouth twisted in displeasure. "Oh, damn. Here comes the bastard."

Jeira turned to see what Ayra was glowering at and found herself staring directly at Hieran who, now that Syrix had abandoned them, was approaching them with an intent look on his face. He stopped a few paces away from Jeira and bowed to the exact degree that was demanded, executing the maneuver with a grace that would have been impressive, if it had been inborn rather than meticulously developed.

"Princess Jeira." He greeted her solemnly. "Forgive me my interruption, but I've come to claim Lady Ayra's attention."

Jeira glanced sidelong at Ayra, whose laughing eyes had dimmed at her fiancés approach. Her unhappiness screamed from her. It was in her slumped shoulders, her sullen frown, her lifeless eyes. Ayra, who so wanted to face down armies, was defeated by the presence of the squirrel she would marry soon, and she knew it well.

"I would be lonely without her, Lord Hieran." Jeira pointed out casually, sending the squirrel a quietly warning look. But she had no authority here. Only the king and queen themselves could challenge Hieran's right over Ayra, and Jeira was no queen; she never would be.

"A thousand apologies, my lady, but I am lonely without her as well." It was a lie, but a well-spoken one. Everyone present knew that Hieran was only interested in Ayra because of her family's wealth and her close bond with the heir. Everyone had heard his boasts of how, as soon as they were wed, Ayra's outlandish antics and good-natured pranks would come to a swift sudden end. He was no lonelier without her than a stone was, but Jeira could not fight him, not on this.

"Good evening, Lord Hieran." Syrix's voice, quiet and cold, sliced through the tension.

Hieran jumped as if he had been slapped. He turned to face Syrix quickly, uncomfortable with the assassin at his back. "Syrix." Hieran returned the greeting in a single, clipped word. He met Syrix's gaze for a moment and then took an instinctive step back.

"And tell me," Syrix drawled, "whatever is it that drags you away from your soulless compatriots?"

"_Excuse_ me?" Hieran hissed.

Syrix gestured at Hieran's friends who stood on the other side of the ballroom clutching goblets of ale and watching the proceedings with calculating stares. "Those heartless bastards you call your friends." Syrix clarified. "Why are you not with them?"

"I came to claim my betrothed." Hieran said, lifting his chin.

Syrix glanced over at Ayra, taking in her defeated state in silence. When he looked back over at Hieran, his eyes were dark and his smile cold. "No." He said. "I don't think you did."

"You have no right to interfere." Hieran argued, but his defiance cost him. He met Syrix's gaze and shuddered.

"No. I don't have the right." Syrix agreed and took a step closer to Hieran, his smile growing in amusement and menace. "But I don't think you really want to challenge me anyway."

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Hieran demanded, his voice hushed and sharp with fear and disbelief.

Syrix took another step towards the squirrel, deliberately invading his personal space. His smile was gone, as was the laughter in his eyes. When he looked at Hieran now, it was with complete and utter gravity. "Do I have to?" He asked.

"I'll petition the king." Hieran said. "I'll tell him-"

"Tell him anything you like." Syrix retorted. "But leave us. Now."

Hieran turned and left immediately, radiating affronted arrogance like a bonfire radiated heat. Ayra stared at Syrix in absolute shock. "I _knew_ you'd warm up to me!"

"I didn't do it for you." Syrix said, his eyes cold. "I did it so that Jeira would not be alone."

But Ayra didn't seem to hear him. "You _do_ love me." She said. "I _knew_ it."

Syrix growled quietly under his breath. "You idiot squirrel, I do not _love_-"

"I love you too, Syrix." Ayra proclaimed and reached out, pulling Syrix into an unreturned embrace.

Apparently embarrassed, Syrix snarled and shoved her away.

Giggling, Ayra turned her backwards stumble into a skip and hurried off towards the drinks, tail waving boldly in the air.

"She's mad." Syrix informed Jeira stonily.

"And you've gone soft." Jeira's eyebrows arched upwards. "Once, you would've watched her floundering around with great amusement."

"And once you had siblings to keep you company."

She winced. "Syrix…" She said, warningly.

He shrugged. "Enjoy your night, Jeira. If Hieran annoys you again, kindly remind him that, as the heir to the throne, you can order him assassinated." He paused. "Also, tell him that I asked you to remind him of what happened to Stonlin when he got irritating."

Jeira frowned. "What do you mean? My father _liked_ Stonlin. He would've never ordered his assassination."

"He didn't." Syrix shrugged. "But your father doesn't keep near enough of a close watch on me." His smile was cold and malicious, and, across the ballroom, Hieran was gulping ale.

"That's called murder, Syrix." Jeira pointed out dryly. "We have laws against that kind of thing."

"Your realm has laws against everything." Syrix retorted. "Unfortunately, I can't stay and argue with you about them. I have something more pressing to take care of."

Jeira flinched obviously and stepped back.

"I'm not going to _kill_ someone." Syrix rolled his eyes. "I'm a bit more discreet than that."

"Well, I didn't…" She fumbled with her words until they simply stopped coming. Nervously, she looked away.

He made a quiet, strangled noise of irritation, like a harsh word choked off in the back of his throat. And then he left, disappearing into the crowd.

Jeira closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and walked off in the opposite direction, carefully constructing an expression of quiet severity.

There was a mouse at the dining table. A _mouse_. No one knew when he had arrived; no one had been paying attention. For three hours, they had been dancing and gossiping and drinking, and now it was time for the feast, and there was a mouse at the table.

Mice did not come here. Mice did not venture into her realm.

If squirrels were inferior, then mice were downright disgusting. Sometimes, they were taken as slaves and worked to death. Mostly, they were executed to save the populace from contamination.

Mice carried diseases; everyone knew that.

But this mouse…this mouse looked healthy. He looked…resilient. He shone as if he carried the sun within him, and no one dared to challenge his right to be here.

The squirrel beside him, though. Well…

"Touch me again, mate, an' I'll rip your damned eyes out."

The squirrel was dark-furred and blue-eyed. He had a sort of madness in his gaze that burned cold and threatening. He was lithe and well-fed and intimidating. The otter that tugged at his arm refused to let go.

The squirrel stood up and threw back his shoulders, ripping his arm free of the otter's grip. "_What_, mate? What do you _want_?"

"Squirrels don't sit this close to the royal family." The soldier said. "Your kind-"

"My _kind_?" The squirrel sneered at him. "You start that nonsense on _me_, and I'll kill you. I've not much tolerance for lunatics."

The soldier frowned. "You're not allowed to sit here, squirrel." He reached out again, his paw moving again towards the squirrel's shoulder.

The squirrel jerked forward, and the solider took a quick, instinctive step backwards. "Don't _touch me_!"

"Zath." The mouse's voice was sharp, tense; the look on his face was carefully neutral. "Sit down."

The squirrel scowled and blatantly refused to sit. His eyes were burning and pinned on the otter. He looked fully ready to hit him.

"I was told, Luke, that you'd learned to contain this one." Syrix's voice was soft and drawling. He appeared out of nowhere, suddenly standing next to the mouse and looking at the squirrel in something like the way he looked at Jeira. "If he attempts to assault-"

"You must _love_ it here, Sy." Zath said, glaring at Syrix. "Imagine, worshippin' otters like they're actually _worth_ something."

"They can kill you, Zath." Syrix pointed out casually. "Luke, I'll protect. But you-"

"Let them try." Zath said, snarling.

Syrix snorted. "They're trained and tested soldiers." His eyes moved down to the mouse. "Luke...haven't you taught him to at _least_ keep his mouth from getting the rest of him killed?"

The mouse, silent so far except for that one ignored order to Zath, merely lifted one shoulder in a shrug, his eyes hinting at an amusement that the flat line of his mouth did not convey. "I tried, Syrix. But he just kept getting better and better with his sword."

"We did confiscate that." Syrix said, sounding far more amused than he had any right to be, given the situation.

"Ah, well. He's always been something like miraculous with his fists." Luke replied.

"Someone really should cut them off."

"Oh, try it." Zath hissed, turning his full attention on Syrix. "Try it, Sy, and I'll-"

His threat was never finished. The otter that had been trying to convince him to move for several minutes decided to take desperate measures and slammed the butt of his spear into the back of the squirrel's head. Amazingly, the squirrel didn't faint. Instead, he staggered around drunkenly and toppled, falling in a slow, sickening sort of way. The mouse was out of his chair and clenching his paw in the back of the squirrel's tunic in the time it took most to blink, catching him before he could fall.

Syrix, however, had made no move to recuse the squirrel. Instead, he went after the otter that had caused the injury, bounding gracefully up onto the table and then leaping to the ground and punching the foolish otter brutally in the mouth.

"Syrix!" Thundered the nearest officer, his eyes widening and his lips drawing back in a snarl. "How _dare_ you-"

"Contain your minions, Vakin!" Syrix interrupted, his tone sharp and cold and clear. "I will _not_ have the ambassadors assaulted!"

"He _threatened_ you!"

"Are you _daring_ to suggest that I am too feeble to respond to threats myself?"

"Did-did vhat basterd gust _hit_ meh?" The squirrel demanded, shoving Luke away and managing, somehow, to stumble _up_ and gain his footing.

"Zath, sit down. You're going to get your throat slit if you keep this up."

"I'll kill vhe vittle idviot." Zath appeared to be having trouble with his tongue; it didn't seem to be obeying him.

"Syrix..." Jeira said, her eyes flickering between everyone, a confused frown forming on her features. "What's going on?"

"And who's this dashing young lad?" Ayra asked, fluttering her lashes at Zath from where she stood with her arm draped companionably around Faren's shoulders.

Zath drew himself up, stared at her, opened his mouth to say something, and then, _finally_, he fainted. Luke, with a roll of his eyes, caught him once again.

At this point, the king finally made his grand entrance only to find all of his subjects too busy crowding around an interesting episode of drama to pay him any attention. After sweeping through the crowd with a look of righteous indignation burning in his eyes and a very severe frown on his face, indeed, he surveyed the scene with exactly the same look in his eyes that appeared when he was studying a battlefield. And then he ordered them – _all_ of them – to follow him. At once.

Jeira, Syrix, Luke, Feran, Ayra, and Zath followed obediently. Out of all of them, only Zath seemed to be at ease and probably only because he was still quite unconscious. Luke and Feran dragged him away, carrying him with little grace and less gentleness, and Jeira stared at Syrix the entire time, stunned by the look on his face.

In all the seasons she had known him, she had never, ever seen him look nervous.


	3. Chapter Three

The group of uneasy courtiers and ambassadors followed obediently behind the king as he stalked through the halls. Jeira walked closely behind her father, but the others lagged a bit, leaving her to walk in front of them like a guard, or breaker, to protect them from her father's wrath. Luke and Syrix still carried Zath between them, and the squirrel's head lolled senselessly on his neck while blood leaked slowly from the wound on the back of his head. In the very back, Ayra expounded on how ridiculous this whole episode was, at great length and with ever-increasing volume, and Feran whispered fiercely back, desperately attempting to get her to stop talking, or at least to stop talking so _loudly_.

When the king finally found a room to his liking (a small, well-decorated study that the scribes used, sometimes, when they desired absolutely quiet,) he pulled the door open and pointed his paw ominously inside. The group dutifully shuffled inside in absolutely silence, with even Ayra seeming somewhat cowed.

The door slammed shut as soon as they were inside, and Feran flinched visibly. "Is he not coming in, as well?" Feran asked after a long moment had passed in uneasy silence. His worried gaze was pinned expectantly to the door, as if the king would reappear at any moment.

"He's probably going to lock us in here," Ayra said darkly, with the kind of impassioned bitterness that suggested she'd been locked in small, quiet places quite frequently in the past. She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked, petulantly. "He's probably going to lock us in and not let us out until the whole ball's over with."

"Calm down, Lady Ayra." Syrix suggested, managing to sound simultaneously long suffering and mildly amused. "I highly doubt that the king is going to lock us in here."

"Well, then, what _is_ he going to do, Rixy?" Ayra demanded, paws going to her hips as her chin jutted out stubbornly. As cheerful and chipper as she could be, Ayra's temper was something of a horror to behold. Unfortunately for everyone else in the room, Syrix had never been overly intimidated by her fits and tantrums, and Jeira recognized the stubborn, stoic look in his eyes as the one that appeared whenever he was about to deliberately provoke someone. The two of them had fought before; the west wing of the castle was still recovering from that particular disagreement. Jeira opened her mouth to intervene before the two of them could incur any more serious property damage when the mouse chuckled quietly, disbelievingly, and everyone turned to stare at him.

"You let her call you 'Rixy?'" The mouse asked, sounding happily surprised. He gave the unconscious squirrel he was still half-supporting a smug, rueful look. "Oh, Zath is going to be so upset that he missed this."

"Luke-" Syrix began, an obvious edge of impatience in his tone.

"You know each other?" Ayra asked suddenly, her temper disappearing now that she had something much more interesting to focus on. Ayra's temper, like every other emotion Ayra felt, was notoriously ephemeral. "From...from before Syrix came here?" Her eyes darted curiously between Syrix and the mouse, her head cocked to the side and her brow furrowed in obvious interest.

The grin on the mouse's mouse faded slowly until it disappeared entirely. He gave Ayra a brief, thoughtful look and then pinned Syrix with a contemplative stare, his mouth flattened into a frown. "You never told them?" He asked, sounding somewhat puzzled and something like sympathetic. "You never told them about-"

"No." Syrix's voice was cold. It was the kind of cold that Jeira knew from the times the guards had done something careless when they were supposed to be guarding her or when one of Jeira's siblings had taken an idiotic risk that they had barely survived. It was a warning and a punishment all in one. His shoulders were tense, and, had he been wearing a sword, his paw would have been wrapped around the hilt. "No, I never did."

The mouse's mouth quirked into a curious little grimace, and he seemed torn between amusement and indignation. Whatever he felt, it obviously wasn't fear, and Jeira was intrigued by that. Because even the bravest creatures she knew (Ayra, Feran, Viarin) had always been a little bit afraid of Syrix, even back before his reputation had taken on such disturbing depths. But this mouse didn't seem afraid at all. He seemed alert and attentive, as if he recognized that he was in a situation that required diplomacy and care, but he seemed neither intimidated nor threatened by Syrix.

"They'll find out soon enough, Syrix." The mouse said and then rolled his eyes at the subsequent scowl that formed on Syrix's face. "I have absolutely no intentions of telling them myself, but, soon enough, everything'll be made perfectly clear to them. Don't you think you should explain before we do?"

Syrix made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, almost a deep rumbling growl. Feran's face closed off immediately and Ayra flinched, falling a half-step back, towards Jeira. But the mouse only blinked long and slow, and then tilted his head a little to the side. There was a tense, anxious silence for a long moment before Syrix finally spoke. "Luke," Syrix said, his tone careful and so very, very cold, "you have no power over me here. Try to refrain from manipulating me to your advantage."

Luke spread his paws wide, his face the picture of offended innocence. But it seemed false, even to Jeira who had always been tripped up by her tendency to believe in the honesty of others. "Syrix, I'm not trying to _manipulate_ you. I just think they might want to hear it from you before they hear it from us."

"Luke, I-"

Syrix never finished his sentence. Instead, Zath woke up at precisely the wrong instant, lunged out of Luke's grasp, punched Faren directly in the mouth, and immediately began insulting Ayra's general lineage as he staggered back, eyes rolling somewhat madly as he tried to find his bearings.

"Oh, I _like_ this one." Ayra said admiringly. She stepped neatly behind Jeira and peered out at Zath from over her friend's shoulders, which was a telltale sign of complete and utter infatuation. It was, after all, very rare for Ayra to get anything like shy. She only got bashful when she was well and truly enamored with someone.

Zath wavered a bit, obviously taken aback by her apparent approval, but he rallied quickly. His mouth flung wide as he took a deep breath, preparing to roar again. "And your taste in males is-"

"Zath!" Luke interrupted and grabbed the squirrel by the scruff of the neck, shaking him violently. The mouse had an exasperated, irritated look on his face, but Jeira saw a bit of bemused fondness hidden in his eyes. He moved with an ease and familiarity that suggested practice, as if he'd had to do this kind of thing several times in the past. "Stop it!"

Zath whirled dizzily, trying to get to Luke or possibly just trying to get free, but he only managed to trip himself rather spectacularly and ended up falling into Syrix, who immediately put him in a chokehold and grinned down at the squirrel, his smile wide and vicious and baring a somewhat unnecessary amount of teeth. "Hello, Zath." He rumbled darkly. "It's been awhile since you framed me for murder."

Zath choked quite eloquently and slammed his head back into Syrix's neck. Syrix made a face of intense disapproval and tightened his hold around Zath's throat.

"He framed you for murder?" Jeira asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on Zath.

"Oh, like I would _need_ to." Zath snapped back, his paws scrambling at the arm curled tight around his neck. "Please. Just dangle an innocent in front of him, and he goes all red about the eyes and lunges for the throat." His voice was tight and harsh, and he was clearly having trouble talking past the pressure on his neck, but it seemed that he was willing to tolerate the pain for the sake of speaking. Jeira privately thought that it would take a great deal, indeed, to make this particular squirrel be quiet.

"Well," Syrix mused dryly, "I've always had a penchant for the blood of the innocent." His arm tightened, and Zath choked again. The squirrel's legs scrambled wildly against the stone floor, and Zath sagged, just a little, in Syrix's arms.

"Syrix." Luke's voice was sharp, cutting. Commanding.

When Syrix looked up at him, his face was much closer to emotionless than it had been when he looked down at Zath. Jeira got the strangest feeling that, despite the fact that Syrix was cheerfully throttling Zath, the otter much preferred the squirrel to the mouse. "Luke," Syrix said, his tone bland, bored, and mildly reproachful, "calm down. We wouldn't want you to get overly excited and, oh, _banish_ someone, would we?"

"Oh, and aren't _you_ even cuter than I remembered?" Zath wheezed out, his legs still kicking desperately while his claws dug viciously into the the flesh of Syrix's arm. "Look at you, bein' all witty. 's adorable, is what it is."

"Oh, I'm adorable?" Syrix said, mockingly. His arm grew tighter still, and Zath's kicks faltered and slowed. "Why don't you go back to sleep, Zath? You're downright _charming_ when you're incapable of speech."

Zath's eyes widened, and he blinked slowly, sluggishly. For a moment, Jeira thought he would finally begin to act intelligently and shut that horrifying mouth of his, but she was sorely disappointed. "'s what your pervert of a mother tells me every ni-" Syrix laughed, short and sharp like it was surprised out of him, and tightened his grip. Zath's eyes fluttered closed; he stopped struggling altogether.

"Syrix." Luke snapped. _Snapped_. At _Syrix_. Ayra's paws, curled around Jeira's shoulders, became less friendly and more protective, pressing down with more weight as she shifted uneasily. Feran took a quiet half-step in Jeira's direction, eyes narrowed and expression serious. "Let him go."

Syrix rolled his eyes rather expressively at the mouse and then loosened his grip the slightest bit before leaning in and whispering something in Zath's ear. Zath's eyes slid slowly open, and his eyes focused on the ceiling as he tilted his head, obviously listening. His face slid into a sharp expression of surprise followed shortly by something that might have been disgust, but he nodded almost immediately after Syrix stopped whispering. Syrix nodded shortly in response, mimicking the squirrel, and then he released Zath, tossing the squirrel easily to the ground, where he wheezed violently for a few moments before the sound of the door creaking open had him jumping artlessly to his feet, eyes narrowed and body tense.

But it was just the king, returning at last with two servants bearing trays of food and drink behind him. The squirrels set the trays down and trooped out again, their tails bobbing behind them as Zath eyed them with a mixture of distaste and confusion; he appeared to be having a considerable amount of difficulty adjusting to the socially inferior status of squirrels in this realm. As everyone else took a glass of light refreshing wine or picked up an apple or pear, Zath lurked sulkily in the background, eying the trays as if they would bite him if he approached.

Without ever making eye-contact with the squirrel, Syrix snatched up a pear and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder at Zath, who caught the fruit and, after a moment of deep deliberation, bit into it. Syrix swiped a glass of wine and sauntered away from the others to lean back against the wall, sipping at the wine and watching the king with wary consideration.

"Father," Jeira said finally, after it became evident that the king was perfectly happy to sit in silence and watch the rest of them devour the light refreshments. "Father, why are we here?"

The king glanced at Syrix, and everyone else followed his gaze. Syrix stared back, his thoughtful expression souring a little around the edges, and he cocked a brow at the king in either challenge or question. The king continued to stare in silence, and, finally, Syrix slipped gracefully away from the wall, standing up to his full height and raising both brows as a look of minor annoyance crossed his face. "Sire," he said, "did you want me to tell them?"

The creatures in the room shifted, reacting quietly. The mouse's reaction was perhaps the least noticeable; he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, looking doubtfully at Syrix, perhaps surprised by the polite tone of Syrix's voice. Feran frowned, his jaw working quietly in what might have been annoyance and what might have been confusion. Ayra clucked her tongue sharply against her teeth, unimpressed by Syrix's previous reticence on a topic he suddenly seemed to know a great deal about. Zath choked on his pear and coughed into his fist before coming up with a wry grin and a knowing look; he was obviously amused by Syrix's deference. And Jeira...Jeira furrowed her brow and bowed her head and looked at Syrix out of the topmost corners of her eyes, confused and just a little hurt. In the past, Syrix had kept secrets from her, but she knew, somehow, that this one was different. That, somehow, this secret was one he should have shared.

"No," the king said after a long, heavy pause. He sighed heavily, and, for a moment, Jeira saw all the years and all the lost cubs that weighed on his shoulders. She wished suddenly and earnestly that she could take them all back, take them all way. It seemed, for a moment, like he carried more weight than anyone could possibly bear for long before it broke them completely apart. "No, Syrix, I think it's best that I tell them."

Syrix nodded his head, bobbing his shoulders in what was the barest suggestion of a bow. "Yes, sire," he said, ignoring that surprised look on Luke's face and Zath's inability to suppress his laughter. Syrix stepped back and leaned against the wall again with a casual, unconcerned ease. He let one arm dangle at his side and kept the other up close to his face, sipping from the wine he held. His eyes, when they moved from the king's face, never made contact with Jeira's. Not once.

"Faren, Lady Ayra," the king's eyes dragged to Jeira; he took a deep breath. "Princess Jeira. These two creatures are from Redwall. The mouse, Luke, is the Redwall Warrior. The squirrel is Zath. He's Luke's...aide." Zath scowled at that, but no one seemed to notice, aside from Syrix, who smiled into his wine, his eyebrows twitching upwards in smug amusement. Feran, Ayra, and Jeira were busy sharing quick, confused glances. They had all heard of Redwall, of course. But they had no idea what the Redwall Warrior and his "aide" would be doing _here_, of all places. And Jeira wasn't at all sure what to make of the fact that Syrix had, apparently, been exiled from _Redwall_, which was (by reputation, at least) a sanctuary, of sorts.

"Forgive me, Father," Jeira said after nodding to Zath and giving a hurried, perfunctory curtsy to Luke, "but what are they doing here? Why are they here _now_?" If Luke was here to help fight against the Nameless One, he should have been here a season ago, at least. By now, even Jeira had learned to accept that the war was all but lost. There was nothing a single mouse could do. Not even if he brought his temperamental aide with him. Not even if he was a legendary warrior with an infamous sword.

The king was quiet for a long minute, looking at Jeira with a stony expression that she had never been able to read. His gaze shifted to Syrix, who was staring at him with the supportive, bracing expression he wore when he was trying to convince Jeira to do something that required a great deal of bravery. Jeira's stomach twisted tight with the realization that she was most certainly not going to like what her father said next. "They are here, Jeira," the king said, his tone carefully measured so that it did not slip away from him, "to take all of you away."

For a very long moment, Jeira waited for her father to correct himself. She stared, poised and calm, and waited in silence for her father to realize what he had said.

"_What_?" Ayra demanded, her voice more squawk than anything else. That single exclamation of shock shattered the expectant silence, and Jeira realized then that it was real. That her father had meant what he said. That the mouse and the squirrel were here to take her away. That she was leaving.

"But," she said, and then stopped. She had no idea what to say. She stumbled over her own tongue and came to a stop. Her mind slipped from thought to thought and feeling to feeling. She thought, _I'm free_. And also, _I'm saved_. Her heart fluttered in her throat like the wingbeats of a startled bird, and she thought to herself that she was safe, that she had been liberated from a horrible fate, that she was going to _live_.

And then she realized that, of course, she was going to be living alone.

"Father," she said, looking across the room at him. He stood there, awkwardly, his eyes staring at a spot just over her left shoulder. His face was the definition of proper impassivity, but there was something in his eyes that she recognized. Over the seasons, as her siblings died, she had learned how to read sorrow in her father's eyes. He hid it well, but there it was, and she stood there, a room away, and had no idea what to do about it. She felt like crying; she knew she couldn't. "Father, you're sending me away?"

He finally looked at her. _Really_ looked at her. He seemed lost, almost, as he stared at her, and she realized that, if he sent her away, she would never, ever see him again. The Nameless One, cheated of his final quarry, his one last ringing note of mocking triumph, would simply skip her in the line-up of those waiting to die and slaughter the king and queen instead. She would be safe somewhere, sequestered in the legendary Redwall Abbey, and her father would be left behind here, in the freezing cold, to die alone. She couldn't bear the thought, but she couldn't force it from her mind. She bit her lip, hard.

"You understand, don't you?" The king said, in a brisk, bracing voice. "The Nameless One will win this war, Jeira. He will take this castle and this realm. But there is a chance that, later, he will make a mistake. Maybe later, he will die." There was a pause, long and heavy and painful. Even Ayra was silent and still, as everyone watched him struggle to keep the emotions out of his expression and out of his voice. "If you outlive him, you could take this realm back, Jeira."

Jeira wanted to object. She wanted to yell and scream and rage. She wanted to argue that he didn't have to die here, all alone, after the Nameless One inevitably killed his wife and any guards or soldiers who tried to protect him. She wanted to fight this, wanted to throw all of her strength against it. If her father had to die, she wanted to _be_ here when it happened. She wanted to _know_. She didn't want to hear about it third-hand and wonder if it was true, if he was really gone, if she would never see him again. She didn't want to live in a world without her father. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to give in to the Nameless One. She didn't want to surrender and retreat and run away to some safe place while her entire family rotted underground, buried beneath the frost and the snow.

She didn't want to leave because leaving meant admitting defeat. It meant accepting that the realm was going to fall and that her father was going to die.

She didn't want to leave because it meant leaving her father behind.

But Jeira had always, always done her duty. She had always done what was asked of her. She had always done what her realm needed her to do. If she stayed, she would die. If she died, the royal family would be entirely erased, except for her uncle and his two cubs, who were temperamental and short-sighted and ill-fit to rule. The realm needed her alive, in exile, waiting to be called back as soon as it was safe to carve the realm back from the Nameless One's domain.

And, besides. Her father hadn't said the words yet, but she highly doubted that this was a gentle suggestion. This was an order from her father, even if he hadn't officially declared it so, and, if she had any tact or grace whatsoever, she wouldn't _make_ him order it. After all, if she were to be leaving soon, this would be one of the last conversations she ever had with her father. There was no reason to make it into an argument, especially since it was so obviously one that she was going to lose. If he ordered her to go, she would have no choice. This way, at least, they could both pretend that this was something Jeira had agreed to.

"I understand," Jeira said finally, slowly. She tilted her head, tried to gather up her thoughts. "You said the all of us?" She asked. "Does that mean...?"

"It means," the king said, "that I would not send you away to be completely without companions in a strange realm. Lady Ayra and Feran will be accompanying you to keep you company." He paused and then looked to Syrix, whose particularly bland expression said quite clearly that something had just happened that he hadn't seen coming at all. "And Syrix, of course, will be going to act as a guard."

"She'll have Luke and Zath." Syrix said, straightening up and looking from Luke to the king. Jeira thought, distantly, that it was rather rude of Syrix to be lodging any sort of complaint when it wasn't _his_ home that he was abandoning. She also thought, much less distantly, that his unwillingness to go hurt her rather deeply. "I assure you, sire, despite Zath's...behavior, these two are quite competent warriors. They will get your daughter and the others to Redwall safely without my help."

The king did not seem particularly impressed by these comments. "Jeira is my only surviving cub, Syrix." The king said, his voice slipping into the one of thundering command that Jeira was used to hearing him use on soldiers and servants who had displeased him. She could not remember him ever speaking to Syrix like this. "She must be protected. You are going to Redwall."

"With all due respect, sire," Syrix said, the flat tone and challenging slant to his eyebrows suggesting that not much respect was due at all in this particular instance, "I _cannot_ escort your daughter to Redwall." He shrugged, almost helplessly. "They did _exile_ me."

"Oh, yes, about that," Zath said, interrupting the tense conversation with obvious amusement. When everyone turned to look at him, he winked at them, causing the king to snort in surprise and indignation. "Luke, tell Syrix that you've changed your mind about that feisty little lover's quarrel of yours and that you want him to come on home now."

Everyone looked to Luke, who was staring at Zath with a sort of awed, grudging disbelief. He looked like he was having trouble deciding if he should throttle Zath with his bare paws right here or wait until there were a few less witnesses. Finally, after several long seconds, Luke turned to Syrix. "We repealed your banishment." He said. "We decided that you probably weren't guilty after all."

Syrix sneered at him in obvious disgust. "Oh, how _sweet_ of you. Very thoughtful, after all these seasons, to finally come to your senses. Good thing you didn't do anything rash like almost _kill _me." He turned to face the king. "This is ridiculous, sire. They'll hardly need me, and, if the group gets too large, it'll be easy to track. It's safer for me to stay here."

"No, Syrix." The king said, emphatically. "You are not needed here. You wouldn't do any good. Go with them. Keep my daughter safe."

"Sire-"

"_Syrix_." The king said, and his tone moved from serious to angry. He scowled, drawing himself up to his complete height and glaring. When he spoke again, he bit off each words so they rang sharp, clear, and damning. "You owe me this, and you will do as I say."

Seconds passed in complete stillness as Syrix stared down the king. There was a great tension in the air, as the two otters stared at each other, and, for a very long time, Jeira thought Syrix was really going to deny her father, was going to defy a direct order from the king. Instead, Syrix just seemed to gather everything into himself. He took one breath, pushed his shoulders back, and then nodded.

"Yes, sire," he said, and his voice was completely empty. "I will go see to the arrangements." He nodded and then left, moving across the room and into the hallway with the kind of exaggerated grace he only showed when he was really and truly angry. Jeira deeply pitied whoever he ran into first.

"So," Ayra said, her voice almost aching with hope. "Does this mean I won't be marrying Heiran?"

The king looked at her, and Jeira caught a glimpse of something quietly amused in his eyes that was quickly replaced by appropriate solemnity. "A most regretful occurrence, of course." The king said. "If parting with him troubles you greatly, I could send him along after you, once a safe amount of time has passed."

"No, sire," Ayra said. "I know that one who loves his realm as deeply as Heiran does could not bear to be parted from it." She was smiling, helplessly and happily. This was, of course, everything she'd ever wanted. Freedom and adventure, the two things she'd always longed for. The fact that she was getting both along with Jeira, Feran, and even Syrix for company was probably more than she had ever even dreamed of.

Jeira tried very hard not to resent how very happy this was making her friend.

"I grieve for your sacrifice." The king said, nodding to Ayra and smiling, ever so slightly, with one corner of his mouth. Then, he looked at Feran. "And you, Feran? Any requests or sacrifices you wish to make?"

Feran seemed lost and confused, but he visibly gathered himself up when the king addressed him. "No, sire. None at all. I am...honored to have been chosen. I will protect Jeira with my life."

The king nodded, and Jeira wondered if he even saw the deep unhappiness in Feran's eyes. After all, Feran had a family he was leaving behind. He was too young to have a wife or cubs, but he wasn't old enough yet for his parents to be dead. He had three younger sisters, as well, and he would be leaving them all behind to come with her across the world. In all likelihood, he would never see any of them again.

"If you have any goodbyes, the three of you should make them now." The king said. "You will be leaving before midnight."

"We will..._what_?" Jeira said, the words breaking from her before she could rein them in. The thought of leaving was acceptable, but so soon? How could she? She'd lived here all her _life_.

Her father looked at that place an inch or so over her shoulder again. "Jeira," he said, "it's important that the Nameless One not realize our plans. You will be leaving here in a matter of hours." He paused. "I suggest," he said, "that you go and pack your things."

"Father," Jeira said, and all the words she'd never said started building up in her throat, started lodging there and burning. She swallowed, hard.

"I will, of course, be there to send you off." His eyes met hers; he seemed unbearably distant. "There's no need to say goodbye yet."

Jeira stared at him, and she knew that, even though they were in a room full of witnesses, this was the closest thing to an intimate goodbye she would be granted. Her father was a good otter and a great king, but he kept his composure religiously, with great care and calculation. Jeira would be kept at paws length so that neither of them embarrassed the other. He would keep her away until she was too far gone to be any threat to his precious self-control.

She searched his eyes, her paws clenching in the fabric of her skirt, and she found a shadow of something dark and deep, a pool of sadness and loneliness that could drown her right now, where she stood, if she strayed too far into its depths. It occurred to her that he only hurt so much because he loved her so deeply, but that was a fool's comfort to begin with, and it only served to make her feel all the worse. She wanted, childishly, to run to him, to wrap her arms tight around his shoulders, bury her face in his neck, and sob like a cub until someone came to pry her away and carry her off, to Redwall, to a strange land, to a life lived in exile.

Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze for a moment, trying to keep her face completely composed even as she let some of her emotions show, briefly, in her eyes. Then she swept her gaze to the floor, bowed her head, and dropped into the deepest curtsy she knew. "Sire," she said, because she would break apart into a thousand pieces if she said _Father_, and she swept out of the room before the first of the tears she could feel burning in her eyes betrayed her.

She did not look back, but, as soon as the door clicked shut behind her, she gathered up her skirts and ran as fast as she could down the hallway, so fast that the tears slipped quickly down her cheeks and off her face, and she could almost fool herself into believing that there were no tears at all.


	4. Chapter Four

Syrix went to find Jeira an hour after he left the meeting, when he ran out of decent excuses to avoid doing so. He sighed as he scrambled up onto the roof, paws slipping ominously on frost-coated stone. When he righted himself, he looked around doubtfully, momentarily unable to find her. And then, suddenly, a flash of white caught his gaze and he turned slowly, brow furrowing, to find her at the very edge of the roof, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a gargoyle crafted to look like a snarling bat-winged jackal. She had traded her black gown for a white shirt and dark breeches, and the clothes were obviously too big for her. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to her elbows, and the breeches hung low on her hips, kept up by a strong belt and the gods' blessings.

Syrix's first thought was that she had to be absolutely _freezing_. His second was that she was terrifyingly close to the edge, and, while she had never faltered before, she had never courted death so boldly, either. His third was that he recognized the shirt she was wearing.

"Are you wearing my clothes, Jeira?" Syrix asked, and it occurred to him almost immediately that, really, Jeira stealing from his dresser should be the absolute _least _of his concerns.

She turned her head to look at him, blinking sluggishly like someone coming out of a very deep sleep. Her eyes were red-rimmed and empty. She stared at him for a long moment and then blinked again. Her eyes widened slowly with recognition. "Syrix," she said, "I didn't hear you."

"Yes," he said. "Clearly." He wanted to move across the roof, to go to her and pull her away from the edge, to drag her by the neck back to safety if necessary. Instead, his paws twisted uselessly, nervously at his sides, and he did not move an inch closer to her. "Come away from the edge, Jeira." He said, his tone quiet and calm, not at all like the voice in his head, which was screaming the same words with anxious, dismayed alarm.

Her brows rose, and she blinked again, looking around her. "Oh," she said, very quietly. "I hadn't even realized..." She gave the gargoyle a lost, bemused expression and then leaned hard against it, resting her forehead against its shoulder. She murmured something that Syrix couldn't make out, and he was one more thundering heartbeat away from going to fetch her when she stepped backward, released the gargoyle, and made her way carefully to Syrix.

Syrix's paw reached out without his permission and grabbed her elbow. "Jeira," he said, "it's freezing up here. You should be..." Faced with the numerous things that Jeaira should be, Syrix trailed off, struck temporarily dumb. She should be inside. She should be safe. She should be _fully clothed_. "Jeira, why are you wearing my clothes?"

"I went to your room." She told him. Her eyes were locked on where his paw was clinging tightly to her elbow. She looked mildly taken aback. "You weren't there. I waited for you, but..." She looked away, her gaze dragging across the castle's grounds and off into the distance, staring at a series of dark, jagged cut-outs in the Northern constellations where the mountains blocked out the stars. Suddenly, she seemed impossible young and impossibly small, too vulnerable to exist in a world where fragile things like her were treated as entertaining novelties by monsters that couldn't be stopped, even by the best of intentions and the purest of hearts. She was a butterfly lost in the howling savagery of a midwinter blizzard, where the ice that fell from the sky was honed blade-sharp by the whetstone of the wind, and Syrix's protectiveness of her was a mad beast set loose in his belly, ripping him to ribbons from within with its fangs and claws.

"Jeira," Syrix said, cautioned. "There's no time for this. You have to be-"

"Don't you tell me what I _have _to _be_, Syrix!" Jeira hissed at him, abruptly furious. Her eyes snapped to his, hate-filled, enraged, and, under that, exhausted and lonely and afraid. "I have be strong, and I have to be brave, and I have to be willing to _accept_ that I will never see my father again, that I will never see my mother again or my sister or my bothers or my _home _again. I have to be quiet and contained when I say goodbye, and I have to be gone by morning, and I have to be willing to leave my father to die _alone_. And I have to _gone_, Syrix. I have to be _gone by morning_, and I don't want to _hear_ what _else_ I have to be, because I _can't_!" She breathed in hard, and something that sounded like a sob was ruthlessly strangled before it could become anything more than a quiet noise of anguish in the back of her throat. "I can't, alright? I _cannot _be _anything_ else for you or my father or _anyone_ right now."

"Jeira," he said, uncertainly. Everything he wanted to say was stuck, somehow, and he couldn't say anything at all. He looked down at her, taking in the way her eyes spat fierce defiance and her paws trembled with cold and her shirt fluttered as the wind caught the extra material and pulled at it, making the fabric ripple like a white flag raised in surrender. He tried again, "Jeira."

She was crying, suddenly. _Sobbing_. For a long moment, she stood with her shoulders back and her spine straight and her chin lifted, sobbing like a cub with the perfect posture of a princess, and Syrix couldn't stand to look at her. He closed his eyes, and his paw tightened sympathetically around her elbow, and she lurched forward, nearly setting him off-balance as she wrapped her arms around him and tried to smother her sobs by pressing her face into his shoulder.

Instinctively, Syrix wrapped her arms around her waist, but instinct failed him from there, and he was silent for a long stretch of horrible, painful seconds. He had no idea what to say to her. She was leaving, and it had been his plan to begin with. He'd known all along she would hate it; he'd set this plan in motion and supported it all along even though he'd known that it would break her heart. He'd told himself that a broken heart could be healed so long as it kept beating, but he found little comfort in that sentiment now that the consequences of his actions were playing out in front of him. "You'll be safe," he said because it was all he could honestly offer. No matter what, Jeira would be safe. Luke and Zath would have done it for him, out of guilt if nothing else, but now that he would be going along as, well, he could promise her safety. With Zath, Luke, and Syrix as guardians, there would be very few creatures in the world who could ever pose any serious threat to her. "I promise you that much."

Jeira pulled back suddenly, and Syrix caught one glimpse of a tear-soaked face before he forced himself to look away. He told himself he did so to save her the embarrassment of being seen this way, but he knew damn well that it was because he couldn't stand the depth of heartbroken disbelief in her eyes. "Safe?" She demanded, incredulous. "_Safe_?" She shook her head sharply. "And at what price, Syrix? What sacrifice must I make for this _safety_ you promise? I've lost everything and everyone _but _my father and my land, and now I have to give those up for the sake of my _safety_?"

Syrix's lips pressed together, and he found that there was nothing he could say to that. He kept his eyes pinned to the left, refusing to make eye-contact even though he knew it annoyed her when he wouldn't meet her gaze. He had no idea how to tell her that he'd done this knowing full-well how it would make her feel. Of all the creatures in the world, Syrix knew Jeira the best, and he'd known _exactly_ what this would do to her, and he had done it anyway, without even warning her beforehand. It was cruel, and wrong, and he didn't regret it. He didn't regret it _at all_.

"_Say something_," she commanded, hissing it out between her teeth. He looked at her then, mutinous and silent. Her eyes flashed with something dark and spiteful. "I _order_ you, Syrix."

Now that her brother was dead and she was crowned heir, Jeira held authority over him for the first time in either's memory. Using that authority was a slap in the face, though, since even the king hesitated before giving Syrix orders, and, aside from the rather memorable incident earlier tonight, the king never made his orders so incredibly blatant. From Jeira, who knew very well how deep Syrix's natural aversion to submissiveness ran within him, it felt like a betrayal.

Which, he supposed, was only fair. Betrayal seemed a common theme of the night.

He was still and silent until he'd counted twenty heartbeats and then he bowed, deep and dramatic and mocking. When he straightened, he gave her his most bland expression, because he knew it would sting. "I've told you before, Jeira. Grief is an entirely selfish emotion."

She stared at him, and he could see her mind turning that over slowly, disbelievingly. "You did this," she said, accusation slowly overtaking incredulity in her tone and expression, "because you didn't want to bother with the nuisance of _grieving_ for me?"

"If my worst sin, Jeira," Syrix said, his own frustration and annoyance starting to win the war with his desire to irritate her with indifference, "is that I care for you too much, then-"

"That's not what this is about, Syrix," Jeira snapped. "That's not why you did this. You did this because _you_ didn't want to be hurt. You did this for _you_. If you'd done this for me, you would have told me beforehand, so I could have stopped this lunacy, if I'd decided that it needed to be stopped. If you'd done this because you _cared_ for _me_, you would have cared enough to let me make my own decision. This isn't a rescue, Syrix. This is a _kidnapping_, and I-"

"_Kidnapping_?" Syrix repeated. "I am _not_ kidnapping you! I just don't want you to _die_ for-"

"Just because my _father_ gave you _permission_ doesn't meant this isn't you taking me _against my will_ to some _abbey_ that I have absolutely no desire to go to! I don't want to retreat, Syrix! I don't want to surrender! I don't want to leave my father here to die alone so that _you_ don't have to deal with the great inconvenience of _losing someone_."

"You aren't just _someone_!" Syrix shouted it, far louder than he would have ever intended, if, in fact, he'd ever meant to say that at all. His jaw clamped shut tight, so hard his teeth clacked together audibly and he bit deep into his own tongue. He breathed in, hard, though his nose, and struggled to keep another outburst from exploding out of him.

Jeira searched his face, eyes boring into his own until he had to suppress the urge to squirm like a cub caught breaking some ridiculous rule. "Neither is my _father_, Syrix." She told him, her voice low and serious and perfectly contained in a way that Jeira had never really managed. Despite her upbringing, she'd never been the perfect embodiment of composure during moments of extreme emotional upset. She hadn't been, at least, until this moment. "I wasn't supposed to be the last one alive, Syrix. I was supposed to die next. It was supposed to be_ over_ for me. I wasn't supposed to have to lose anyone else."

Syrix thought, irrationally, of his own family, who had loved him only so long as he was useful and had left him the moment it stopped being profitable to keep him. He thought of Kiri, who he'd adored as a youth and who he had been accused of killing. He thought of the soldiers he'd befriended when he first arrived; he thought about their mass grave, with the single marker that failed to distinguish it from all the others surrounding it. He thought of Jeira, who only knew the carefully censored version of him that he allowed her to see and loved him anyway, in the same simple, trusting way that she loved anyone who didn't move to deliberately hurt her.

She wasn't supposed to lose anyone else? Yes, Syrix understood that. And yet. "Well," he said, "neither was I."

She slapped him across the face, hard enough to snap his head to the left. He grimaced, caught off-guard by the sudden pain, and, by the time he'd looked back at her, she was already pulling away. His paw was still wrapped around her elbow, but, when she tugged, he let her go.

He figured he'd done enough damage to their friendship for now. His paw lost its grip and fell to his side, and Jeira left him alone, scrambling down the roof and in through the window with a careless haste that made his stomach flip over and jerk upwards, lodging itself in his throat.

He swallowed hard when she was safely inside, but his stomach stayed where it was, anxiously wringing itself it knots and making his breath catch in his throat and his heart ache in his chest.

...

When Jeira burst into her rooms, she found a dozen maids rooting through her belongings and arranging her things into piles. They all averted their eyes and dropped into deep, sweeping curtsies as she walked in, and Jeira found that she simply could not tolerate it. "Leave," she ordered them, putting on her most imperious tone to mask the tremor underneath it. They hesitated, exchanging looks, and Jeira blinked once, long and slow, to give herself time to bully her features into a mask of mildly impatient impassivity. "Leave _now_, please," she said, her tone shifting from imperious to demanding, and the maids gathered their skirts in their paws and left her room as quickly as they could without breaking into a run. The last of them shut the door quickly behind her, casting an unreadable look in Jeira's direction, and Jeira stared back, blankly, until the heavy wooden door creaked shut.

As soon as the door was fully closed, Jeira turned her back on it and moved quickly across her room. She shoved all the piles of gowns and jewelry off her bed and climbed atop it, snatching up a pillow and curling around it. She buried her face in its softness but did not cry; instead, she trembled in silence and bit deeply into the side of her mouth. The coppery tang of blood was unpleasant but not unwelcome; she found it oddly soothing. It reminded her that her heart was still beating, despite the fact that she felt as if it had been ripped from her chest and replaced by some of the heavily-packed snow on the ground outside. It ached, distant and cold, and her paws tightened around the pillow.

The door opened, quietly, and Jeira did not even lift her head. Over the past few seasons, the number of creatures who would enter her rooms without knocking had slowly ticked down until only two remained. She had abandoned one on the top of the castle, and the other, by all rights, should be busy gleefully throwing her belongings into trunks. It was one of the two, and whoever it was would announce themselves soon enough. Jeira was in no rush to lift her head to see who had come to interrupt her solitude.

"Oh, Jeira," Ayra's voice was soft, apologetic. The bed sunk as she took a seat near Jeira's hip, and Jeira heard her sigh. "I never even thought. I was just so glad to be leaving. I never even thought about how it must feel to you." She pulled one of Jeira's paws away from the pillow and held it, tightly, for a moment. Jeira clutched back, clinging to her friend's paw, and this, right here, was the best thing about Ayra: she didn't need to understand to sympathize. Unlike Syrix, she didn't calculate and play coy and hide truths behind honest answers that said nothing at all. She was a fierce thing, half-mad and more than half-wild, but she was honest and sincere and earnest. Even her insults were edged with honesty, so that they cut all the deeper.

"It's for the best," Jeira admitted, her voice muffled by the pillow. She could say it to Ayra. Saying it to Ayra was easy, simple, and uncomplicated. With Syrix, it was almost always a competition somehow, even if she had never understood the rules and hadn't the faintest idea as to the point. Ayra didn't turn the truth into a puppetshow for her own enigmatic purposes, and so it was easier to face the truth around Ayra. Jeira sat up slowly, her paw still holding Ayra's, and she offered her friend a weak, exhausted smile. "I know it is, Ayra. I just...this is my _home_. This is my realm. This is my _father_. I'll...I'll miss them," she stopped talking abruptly, before the words could choke her.

Ayra smiled back and nodded and looked perfectly, wonderfully sorry, and there was no hint of evasion or frustration or guilt in her eyes whatsoever. "Well," she said, "my mother's ordered me to talk half of my pointless, _ridiculous_ ballgowns, so we'll have balls at this abbey. You and I, and the boys, too. We'll make them dress up in our gowns, if we have to. They'll stand there, bored and out of sorts and drinking too much wine, and it'll be just like home, won't it?" Jeira laughed, caught just enough off-guard by Ayra's complete lack of propriety to find it amusing rather than uncomfortably accurate, and Ayra grinned, quick and bracing. "See, there?" She said. "It's not so horrible, after all."

Jeira stared at her, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "You've always been the brave one, Ayra," she said, marveling.

Ayra stared at her for a moment, looking completely serious for perhaps the first time in her life. She leaned forward suddenly and wrapped Jeira in a tight hug. "No, Princess," she said, fiercely, "I've never been half as brave as you."

And then, just as quickly as it had come, Ayra's seriousness had passed, and she pulled back, grinning cheekily. "Now," she said, "let's discuss your outfit. Those are Syrix's clothes, are they not? And, pray tell, just _what_ were you doing naked in his chambers?" Her grin grew all the more roguish. "Don't tell me the little fool finally found a _proper_ way to cheer you up?"

Jeira choked and sputtered, leaping off her own bed in shocked indignation. "_Ayra_!" She hissed, so taken aback that, at first, that was the only word she could manage to get past her lips. Ayra, meanwhile, was rolling on Jeira's bed, cackling wildly, legs kicking in the air. "You," Jeira said, as solemnly as she could manage, "are a terrible, terrible squirrel."

"I'll take that for a no, then. Which means you were undressing in his rooms, and he _still _didn't quite manage to figure it out." She paused just long enough to hum thoughtfully. "Syrix, I think, has just been disowned by all male otters _everywhere_." She flopped over on her side, grinning up at Jeira in impish amusement. "Although, in all fairness to him, I suppose you weren't disrobing in his presence? It's too bad, really. If there's one thing that otter needs in his life, it's-"

"What I need, Lady Ayra," Syrix's voice froze the blood in Jeira's veins for half a second before all of it tried to flood into her cheeks; she blushed so hard and so quick that, for a moment, she felt like she would faint, "is for you to close that truly astonishing mouth of yours and get back to packing. You'll be truly devastated to hear that you must get rid of at least a quarter of the clothes you were planning to bring. We need more room."

Ayra, who had been staring at Jeria with her face twisted up into an actor's mask of shock, sat up slowly and took one long look at Syrix. Then she hopped up, nodded, and ran off, breaking into hysterical giggles as soon as she was clear of Jeira's doorway. Jeira, meanwhile, refused to look, refused to even _acknowledge_ Syrix, who was standing outside of her line of sight and seemed in no hurry to acknowledge her.

"That squirrel," Syrix said finally. He said it heavily, as if he were fully prepared to sum up all of Ayra in a quick, damning sentence, but he floundered. One heartbeat of silence went by, followed by half a dozen more, before he sighed, exasperated. "She'll scandalize the entire abbey," he said, finally, and this time there was no anger in his tone, only grim, grudging pride.

"How fortunate," Jeira said, "that you'll be there to see it."

Syrix was silent again, for even longer than before, and then he moved across the room, his footsteps nearly silent. He made noise on purpose, she knew, as a favor to her; when she first befriended him, he used to startle her near to death by sneaking up on her soundlessly and addressing her suddenly, with absolutely no warning. He moved to the edge of the bed and knelt suddenly, and she had no idea what he was doing until she saw that he was rummaging through all the clothes and jewelry she had thrown to the ground.

"What are you doing?" She asked, too tired to get terribly worked up about this latest impropriety.

He glanced up at her and then looked quickly back down. "You need your things packed, Jeira, and you sent your maids away." He began moving things, setting them aside, folding clothes and forming piles.

"I'd rather them than you," she said. "And isn't it ludicrous, to take this much clothing? From what I've seen of Luke and Zath, the Redwall dwellers don't exactly dress formally, even at formal occasions."

"You are not of Redwall," Syrix told her, his gaze focused on the clothes in his paws. His tone was guarded, almost dismissing, and it occurred to Jeira suddenly and brutally that, when they reached Redwall, Syrix might not even stand at her side. He had belonged there once; surely he had friends that he had missed, loved ones he had longed for these long seasons in exile. Perhaps he would abandoned her. She'd be sent to Redwall with three allies, and Syrix would leave her to be with creatures he loved more than some overly-sensitive, ungrateful princess he'd been forced to serve, and Ayra would make a dozen friends in a dozen minutes, and Feran would stand by her, faithful but lonely, made awkward by his overdeveloped sense of duty and decorum, and she would be completely alone.

"What," Jeira said, "does that mean?"

Syrix looked up at her, and he looked exasperated. "It _means_," he said, "that you are not of Redwall and therefore you will not be expected to _act_ like you are. By all means, assimilate if it pleases you, but your father wishes you to be dressed as a queen if the occasion calls for it, so you shall have the means to do so." He paused, mouth twisting in a brief grimace. "And you will be taking your family's jewels."

"My family's...the _crown jewels_?" Jeira demanded. "He is giving me the _crown jewels_?"

Syrix closed his eye briefly and then put the necklace he'd been untangling down on the ground and looked up at her. "Since you are to be the last surviving member of the royal family, Jeira, does it not make _sense_ that you would be granted guardianship of the crown jewels?"

At that moment, Jeira wanted very much to kick him. But she knew that he was being as patient as he knew how to be, and she knew that she had already strained their friendship further tonight than she ever had in the past. So, she refrained from kicking him in the face but gave him a sour smile in order to make absolutely certain that he knew she did not appreciate his sarcasm. "But, Syrix, how are we to _get_ the crown jewels to Redwall?"

Syrix shrugged. "Your father has granted us the use of one of the small carts the soldiers use to haul their wounded from battle. It'll hold the jewels, as well as jewelry and clothing belonging to you and Lady Ayra. Zath, Luke, Feran, and I will take turns hauling it."

Jeira fought the urge to roll her eyes because that was not what she had been asking, and Syrix clearly knew that. "I _meant_," she clarified, "how exactly are we to carry a literal treasureof jewels halfway across the world to Redwall without getting ourselves killed for all that finery?"

"It's only halfway across the world if you go by land, Princess," Syrix said, "and Luke apparently has friends who are in possession of a ship."

"_What_?" Jeira said, shocked. There were bays about half a weeks' walk away where the water had not yet frozen solid, but to go by sea at this time of year was lunacy. These sailors of Luke's were either incredibly experienced or completely mad.

"Yes, I know," Syrix said, "I was quite shocked, as well. What creature in their right mind would befriend that mouse on _purpose_? My only guess is that it must have been completely accidental."

"Yes, wonderful, Syrix. Make your jokes. Because we certainly aren't all going to _die _on this boat."

"Oh, don't be dramatic. I can assure you of this, Jeira: Zath's survival instincts are never to be underestimated. If there is a way to survive, Zath will find it. And if Zath is willing to take to the seas in the middle of winter, than you and I can find comfort in the fact that, so long as we stick somewhat nauseatingly close to Zath, absolutely no harm will come to us."

Jeira stared down at Syrix, taking in his serious expression and the smile tucked away safely in his eyes, and she sat down on the edge of her bed and rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "About...about before."

Syrix nodded slowly and then ducked his head, going back to his task of folding and sorting. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"I behaved horribly," Jeira reminded him.

Syrix was still looking down, still folding up one of her favorite gowns, but there was a small, soft smile curling up the corners of his mouth that he probably thought she couldn't see from her angle. "Perhaps. But not inappropriately. I'm not...I'm not exactly the best creature to befriend. I'm appallingly selfish, in my way, and I take my oaths entirely too seriously." He finished folding her dress and set it aside, picking up another one from the pile: a yellow one that she had always hated. "You have to understand, there's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you. There's no one I wouldn't hurt to keep you alive, and, sometimes, that's going to include you."

Jeira understood that. Syrix's focus was a terrible thing; it often consumed him so completely that he did great harm to himself in the pursuit of his goals. But, still. "That's not what a friend does, Syrix. A friend would have realized that this was a decision that I should have helped make."

Syrix looked up at her, briefly, and then back down at the dress in his paws. "Jeira," he said, "I will be the best guard you ever have. But it's quite possible that I will also be the worst friend you've ever known." And then he grabbed the dress at the neck and tugged violently, ripping it nearly to the waist. "Oh," he said, his tone completely unapologetic, "looks like I've torn this dress. You'll simply have to leave it behind. How tragic. And you loved this one so very much." He tossed it carelessly aside, up onto the bed where it lay, even more hideous now that it was disfigured, and Jeira smiled.

"Perhaps not the very worst," she said, softly.

He looked up at her and smiled, wide and wicked and a little bit relieved. "No," he said dryly, "perhaps not the very worst."


End file.
